


Oh, Happy Neighbor

by bibliomaniac



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autism, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, but there is both android Connor and android Hank&900!Hank (Henry), please mind the warnings this will probably get a bit intense, specifically this is an AU where the canon setting is largely the same
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2019-10-11 18:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17452352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliomaniac/pseuds/bibliomaniac
Summary: It's been two years since the android revolution, and things have mostly settled into a kind of rhythm.For Hank, of the failed HK800 line, that rhythm mostly involves struggling to get out of bed and to do anything while attempting to stave off thoughts of what it would be like to just not try anymore. For Henry, of the more successful HK900 line, the rhythm is about keeping up with what is expected of him and trying to learn to connect with people other than Hank, his best and only friend and the object of his unexpressed affection. For Connor, a prototype RK800 only recently rediscovered, reactivated, and sent into the world, that rhythm is a desperate attempt at controlling everything in his life even as it feels like it's spiraling out of his hands.Probably none of them should fit together. But when Hank meets his neighbor Connor and they discover they have more in common than they expect, they'll all eventually find that love binds in a way that defies prediction.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fic title is from the song oh, happy neighbor! by playradioplay
> 
> this fic is what i have lovingly dubbed 'neighbors au: mental illness ed.: poly ed.' which really rolls off the tongue, u kno. i wanted to do another fic exploring mental illness; whereas it's anchored focused especially on moral ocd on the pure-o end of things, with this i wanted to go more into depression, ocd with compulsions, and autism. so uhhh i just gave one to each! it's fine! but please mind the cws at the beginning of each chapter; it's going to be pretty candid about all of these issues and probably not always pleasant. it will have a happy ending tho! also please note than unlike most of my fics where unless it is expressly meant to be explicit i do a t-rated version and e-rated portions, this one is m in terms of discussion about adult issues and also e for eventual nsfw. i'll make it skippable when i get to it, but! keep that in mind!
> 
> cws for this chapter include: some pretty explicit discussion and depiction of moderate to severe depression, depiction of ocd-induced counting/number obsessions&compulsions (in the odd number variety) and generally compulsive adherence to routine, self-deprecation, low self-esteem, and self-hatred, negative thinking and pessimism, mention of suicidal ideation both passive and active, an android equivalent of disordered eating, hopelessness, awkward situations and conversation, implied anxiety attack

_hank_

Hank knows his neighbor's morning routine better than he knows his own. He doesn't have much of one—he mostly rolls out of bed when he can't stay in it any longer and then halfheartedly attempts a facsimile of normal functioning—but he thinks even if he did, he'd still know his neighbor's morning routine the best. It's incredibly consistent, almost unnaturally so, and every day, he lays in bed and listens to the sound of it. It would almost be comforting if it didn't remind him that everybody else seems to have more of a handle on their lives than he does. 

Seven oh one A.M., he wakes up, always with a gasp of breath and then labored breathing for one minute longer. Seven oh three, the rustle of sheets indicates he is getting out of bed. Seven oh five, a shower. It lasts for precisely eleven minutes in total, taking them to seven sixteen, but Hank doesn't hear the shower door open until seven seventeen. A closet door sliding open, seven minutes of the sound of clothes being put on. Another wait, to seven twenty five. The refrigerator opens: seven twenty seven. The trash can: seven twenty nine.

He leaves, locking the door, at seven thirty one, and does not return until five fifty three. Or, well, his steps indicate he's there sooner, but the door opens at five fifty three. He waits for it to come every time.

Consistent.

Hank knows what time it is always. His attempts at disabling the display in his visual field at will have been, thus far, unsuccessful. He always knows what time it is, even when he doesn't want to—when the display flashing an unobtrusive 'one oh four' only reminds him that he's been in bed far too long, that he has work to be done, that he should probably take out his garbage can now that it's been overflowing with thirium bags for two weeks at least. That other people, other androids, are all probably up doing things. Get up, Hank, get up, be productive, be useful, be worthwhile, be _anything_  but a fucking lump of nothing-at-all in the bed. Usually then he just closes his eyes and pretends that he doesn't still know the time even with the display. An inherent quality built into him so that even if his ocular units were ripped out he'd still know that he's on the clock and failing miserably. Thanks, CyberLife.

So he knows what time it is, just by virtue of being what _he_ is, but part of him prefers judging time by the sound of his neighbor instead. To wake up to the times he hums in the shower only to cut himself off as if he's realizing he's doing it unintentionally, to hear the sound of him coming home and pretend like he's welcoming home a friend. He's not, of course. He's never met his neighbor. But Hank is groundbreaking technology, so imagination isn't beyond him. He can imagine he's not a fucking mess. It's like those bedtime stories humans tell their kids. Dragons and princesses and magic and happily ever afters. You know. That kind of imaginary bullshit.

Sometimes while he's imagining he imagines himself completely different. Maybe an android who wasn't dysfunctional from the very beginning, who could complete his mission, was good enough to stay in active service. Maybe an android who wasn't shoved into deep storage and kept there for years. Maybe it's that kind of fantasy. Or maybe all of that shit is the same, but this other Hank was fine anyway. Maybe he'd be a Hank who didn't deviate early, didn't go on the run, didn't need to be chased down. Maybe a Hank who after the revolution wasn't bitter about all that, who realized that sometimes bad shit happens and you just need to deal with it, who didn't feel angry and worthless and out of place and directionless. Maybe he'd just be a Hank who was exactly the same except for he'd get out of bed now that it's two forty two in the afternoon and take out the fucking trash. Maybe that's the most he could ask for, is to be someone who takes out the trash when the thirium bag tower he's working on is at least three days past structurally unstable.

But, well. Maybe he doesn't even deserve to ask for that.

_Hank,_  comes a calm voice over an incoming transmission. _Are you out of bed?_

Henry asks the worst questions sometimes. He decides, entirely out of spite and also just because he doesn't really want to talk, to give the worst answer: he doesn't say anything at all.

_I will take that as a no._ Anyone who didn't know Henry as well as Hank did, or maybe just anybody who wasn't an earlier and less successful iteration from the same line, might not catch the hint of mixed disapproval-concern, but Hank is all that, so. _Weren't you expressing concern about the state of your trash can? And your work_ —

Christ fucking almighty. _Henry, can you not?_

There's a fraught pause, where Hank is guessing they're both feeling a bit like shit, then Henry responds. _I would not stress the matter if I did not believe these things are important to your well-being._

_I know._  He knows Henry worries, he knows he should be getting off his ass, the issue has never once been that he doesn't _know_  the hole he's always digging himself. _I just..._  He leaves the statement open-ended. He's not sure how he would end it, if he tried. He just can't? He's just tired? He just wants to go back into stasis and never come out?

Henry pauses again, then offers cautiously,  _I could come over, I could help_ —

_Henry, fuck, no. You're good to say it and I know you mean it, but no. You have enough shit as it is without taking on mine too just because I'm too fucking incompetent to walk a couple of minutes down the stairs to the dumpster._

_You're not incompetent._

_No comment, but point stands. I'm not going to take advantage of your friendship like that, okay? I'm depressed, not an asshole. Or, well._

_No comment,_  Henry echoes, but with that slight lilt that means he's trying a joke. Hank appreciates the attempt. _And...all right. But. You can take advantage of me any time. Wink._  He actually says the 'wink' out loud—or, well, verbally over the link—and Hank snorts, fond.

_Yeah, okay, you weird bastard._ Hank has wondered, on occasion, how Henry might react if he took him up on one of those little jokes. He tries not to wonder that. God knows Henry deserves better, and anyway, they're just—jokes. Just a joke between your earlier prototype, who you once attempted to hunt down, seize, and kill prior to your deviancy and then became friends with, and you, the perfect-if-slightly-socially-awkward model of what Hank could have been and now doesn't think about having.

God, his life is a shitshow.

_Try to get out of bed? At least just to refill on thirium. You know you should be topping up regularly because of your more inefficient construction_ —

_Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll...I'll get out of bed._

_Now?_

_Sometime today._

Henry sighs. _I will expect verification of this promise. If you don't give it to me yourself, I'll access your laptop camera again._

_Okay, Mr. FBI Agent._

_I don't know what my job has to do with any of this._

_I've been spending a lot of the time perusing old Internet trends. Don't worry about it._

_Hm. Well. Please drink your thirium, get out of bed. Maybe even open up the door. Maybe it'll inspire you to make the journey down to the dumpster._

_Ha-ha. Yeah. I will. Thanks, Henry. Keep safe out there. There are folks who want you back in one piece._ Like Hank. As one example.

_I'll cancel my plans for the usual afternoon dismemberment. Goodbye, Hank. Call if you need me. Or..._  He hesitates, then continues with an edge of defeat. _Yes. Call if you need me._

_Mm-hmm._

The transmission ends, and Hank buries his head in the pillow he doesn't technically need. He wishes that talk made him feel better instead of worse, because that's probably what Henry was going for. 

He turns his head to the side to look dully at his apartment. It's clean-ish, not because he cleans but because he doesn't have much in the way of belongings. Some furniture that Henry had convinced him to buy, all secondhand. His clothes are all washed but kept in the hamper because he doesn't have the energy to put them away properly. There are some books on a bookshelf, paper ones, that he liked reading at some point, when he actually thought he could change his life for the better, or some optimistic bullshit like that. They're all covered in dust now, like pretty much everything else in the room. He's probably lucky he doesn't need to sneeze in response to airborne irritants. Might be fouling up his joints, though. He doesn't really care enough to check.

From his doorway he can see through to the kitchen, and in the kitchen he can see a sliver of Mount Thirium Bag. He had kinda-sorta promised Henry. He should do it today. He should get out of bed. He should do so many things.

Instead, he clamps another pillow over the top of his head and uses his million-dollar imagination to imagine it suffocating him until he doesn't have to open his eyes anymore.

It is three oh four, his programming supplies. He can lay here for another few minutes. Hours, maybe. Days? No, he promised. Not days. But for now, he can be here.

When he finally convinces himself to get out of bed, after a lot of moping and a full fifteen minutes of screaming at himself internally, he stops at the doorway to gaze glumly at the kitchen with his head against the doorframe. He knocks his head against it—just once, not hard—and closes his eyes. Four fifteen. He can do this. He can start off by just topping off on thirium like Henry wanted. The lightheadedness that comes from his processors running at diminished capacity due to low thirium levels is kind of good sometimes—well, not good, it doesn't feel good, but it means he thinks less—but. He said. So.

He trudges over to the fridge and opens it up, staring at it for a minute or so before he finally reaches in to grab a bag. He's low on supplies, apparently. Henry had put him on auto-renew for a regular delivery, though. That'll probably come soonish. A lot better than having to get out to go to the grocery store. He'd gone two weeks without leaving the apartment a while back because he didn't want to bother with all of it, which is when Henry had set up the delivery thing in the first place. ...And now he's just standing aimlessly with the bag in his hand again. Fuck, he needs to stop getting distracted.

Clicking off the cap and eyeing the Mountain to see if he can find a reasonable place to shove it that won't collapse the whole thing, he finds a small gap and pushes it in, then chugs the thirium until the bag is empty and crumples it in his hands. One more addition to his game of Jenga for Dumbasses, he supposes, and he finds a spot and—

Fuck, _fuck,_ fuck fuck fuck, the thirium bags go cascading down onto the floor, and he can only stare at it blankly before sliding to the floor, suddenly feeling incredibly tired and just _done._ He doesn't want to clean that up. He doesn't want to take out the trash. Fucking fuck he doesn't want to _be_  here at _all_  in the first place, he never _asked_  for any of this, why the fuck does being alive require so much fucking _maintenance_  when he doesn't even _want this_ —

He spends a while there, just on the floor sitting with his hands under his thighs so he won't circle his fingers over his thirium pump, maybe press the release latch, maybe—maybe nothing. He shouldn't be thinking about this. Fuck, he told Henry if he was thinking about this he'd—he isn't thinking about this, not seriously, anyway. He's sitting on his hands. It's fine.

It's not fine, obviously, but just like how he can have an imagination, he can lie to himself too, at least long enough for him to get up with a shaky exhale and go get another trash bag. Numbly, he piles the ones that fell into the extra bag, transfers a few from the remaining shambles of the Mountain so he can take it out and close it up.

Four forty nine. Just as numb, he hefts the bags and opens his door, closing it behind him with his hips and turning towards the stairs.

"Jesus fuck!" he exclaims involuntarily, startled by the sight of a brown-haired man curled up next to his neighbor's door. His hands are pressed tightly over his mouth and his LED is a bright, constant red. When he hears Hank, he yelps and almost leaps up into the air, instead falling backwards and scrabbling closer to the door.

"Wh—wh—wha—" he stammers, eyes wide and a bit terrified. His voice is high-pitched right now, but kind of pleasant, a bit husky. His eyes are nice too, and his face. None of this really matters.

"I—sorry, I just didn't—see—" This is why he never goes outside. Or, well, other reasons, but this is one of them. Unpredictability and social interaction, God. "Fuck. Sorry. I just didn't notice you there, so I was—sorry."

The man is still staring at him like he's perhaps carrying an axe instead of just two trash bags. "I," he squeaks out, then seems to run out of words out. "It's...fine. You're fine. Don't worry, it's fine. Um." Blindly, he searches behind him for the doorknob like he's just going to open the door (his door? Oh, fuck, is this his neighbor?) and scoot backwards into it, but then he freezes in place for a few seconds and then looks at his wrist, where there's a watch.

An android with a watch. Huh.

He's biting his lips, chewing on them nervously, and his LED is still red. God, he must have really spooked him. Hank feels bad. "I'm—I live there," he offers uselessly, gesturing back behind at the door he came out of, the locked door, Jesus fucking Christ he hates this he's so dumb fuck fuck. "Do you...live...there?"

The man looks behind him like he's forgotten there's a door. "Oh. Yes. I...I'm in there...the. Apartment. I'm not in there now, though." His eyes close slowly in the universal sign of _oh, shit, that was stupid,_  which is honestly kind of comforting, because Hank feels just as stupid. It's nice to have a friend in this. Not that they're friends.

"So neighbors," Hank offers weakly, with an attempt at a smile. "I'm Hank."

The man gazes at him confusedly for a few moments, almost as though he doesn't know why Hank is offering the information, before his face clears. "Oh. Connor. Is...my name."

"Okay," Hank says, because he's a fucking dumbass.

"Okay," Connor says, because maybe he is too, or maybe Hank is just intimidating him and he should fuck off and take the fucking bags to the fucking dumpster.

"Okay," Hank says, still a dumbass. "I'm going to just..." He jerks his head towards the stairs and lifts the bags in an unnecessary explanation. "Nice to, uh. Meet you. Connor."

"You also," Connor replies automatically, and attempts a smile of his own. It looks mostly like a grimace. Hank can relate. "Have...fun?"

He won't and they both know it, by their respective winces. God. He should have stayed inside, maybe.

By the time he's back from the dumpster, Connor is gone, and it isn't until he's back in the safety of his own house, back hiding in his bed, that he realizes that this is the first time he can recall that his neighbor has deviated from his schedule. It was four fifty. A full hour early. He shouldn't have been there.

He turns that thought over for a few moments before discarding it. He has no place to tell anybody what they should or shouldn't be doing. And when his sensors register the muffled sounds of someone breathing too fast from next door—well.

That's not his place either.

He listens to the sound of hyperventilating and stares at the ceiling and takes that pillow and puts it over his face again, and promise or no, Henry or no, his fingers circle his thirium pump and he imagines. He doesn't know what being dead would be like, but when he imagines, he always just thinks: better. Surely, it's better than this.

The rhythm of circles and rapid breathing guide him to stasis, and maybe it's only six ten, but it's so nice to sink into nothing that he doesn't really give a shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: a lot of negative self-talk, low self-esteem, self-hatred, brief reference to being held in a lab involuntarily, lots of anxiety, overwork as a bad coping mechanism, lots of obsessions and compulsions related to counting and time and numbers (odd numbers specifically), obsessive thinking relating to contamination and morality, anxiety attacks, awkward interactions, some existential angst, over-apologizing as an anxiety thing

_connor_

Connor wonders sometimes if, perhaps, his existence is some kind of last punishment from CyberLife for failing his mission so egregiously. He is aware that this is an irrational thought. The engineers who coded his personality matrix were surprised by some of his idiosyncrasies, though they were within normal parameters and did not impede his initial release. They probably could not have predicted the degree to which those idiosyncrasies would spiral out of control with the additional factor of his deviancy. CyberLife almost certainly did not and could not anticipate this.

However, as with so many things these days, the irrationality of his thoughts does not stop him from thinking them.

A last punishment; a last-ditch effort at making him suffer for his role in destroying the company. It's technically still operational, he supposes, but all of its assets and practices are on hold while it undergoes a detailed review. It had been this that freed him from the lab again. 

(He doesn't like to think about the lab. This also does not stop him from thinking about it.) 

In any case, public whispering seems to indicate that it is almost certain CyberLife will be dissolved after the report is finalized, and Connor is inclined to agree. The president wants to make a show of good faith to the androids, ostensibly, but also to make an example of them. People are already claiming she's too soft. She wants to prove she's not, and CyberLife is an easy target. It will likely be shut down, fragmented into smaller companies, peddling upgrades and patches and repairs. An ignominious downfall.

If they did want to punish him, they'd probably be justified, and they'd have chosen a rather clever way of doing it. Because even aside from the counting and the wiping and the endless thinking, not that he ever gets to set those aside—even aside from that. The fact of the matter is that he has been sentenced to live his life with the constant company of the person he hates most in this world. He will always, always have to live with himself.

Clever. Not that he feels particularly congratulatory. 

Right now, he's mostly feeling panic. His supervisor, the owner of the small bookstore at which he works and an incredibly kind woman who probably deserves better than him, had called him in to her office at lunch to talk with him. She's not talking right now, though, just gazing at him thoughtfully. He fidgets and tries not to let his breathing grow heavier. Eventually she sighs and leans back in her chair.

"Connor, you're a wonderful employee. You know that, I am hoping? We most likely would not have been able to keep this place running another year if it had not been for you."

 _Wrong, wrong, not wonderful,_  his mind chimes, but he ignores it as best he can in favor of murmuring, "Thank you, Ms. Hashemi. You're very kind to say so."

"I am not kind, I am truthful." This is inaccurate. She is one of the nicest women he knows, not that this is an exhaustive list or even a long one. "I called you in here today because—" Her mouth twists, and she takes off her glasses for a moment, adjusts her hijab. Two of her nervous tics. Connor fidgets harder. "You are not in trouble, Connor, I want to be sure to start off with this. But KJ has told me that you are always working through your lunch breaks, arriving early and leaving late. And I have seen and received emails from you late in the evening, updates on our social media." She frowns, only slightly, but there. "You have not registered any overtime, yes? I checked our timesheet."

Oh. The panic rises higher in him, and he gulps like it will keep it down. "I—I mean—I didn't want to impose, but I wanted to be. Helpful? I'm sorry—"

"Connor, you are not in trouble," she reminds him with a small smile. "I know this was probably born of good intentions. You are a sweet boy. But it is not legal for us to have you work without compensation, yes? Even if it were, I would not want this."

He wishes he could shrink until he no longer existed, sometimes. Now. "I'm sorry," he repeats uselessly. "I just—I'm sorry."

"Just ask for overtime if you want it in the future, yes? And be sure to write it down also. But for now—" She puts her glasses back on and looks down at the paper on her desk. "You have not taken any of your leave, either. It has not been a year yet, so I will not fuss, but please consider it before that time comes." She nods, tapping her fingers against the paper. "All right. I do not think we have the funds at present to pay you properly in one lump. But if we carry over into the next month—yes. Yes, okay. We will put you on half days with full days pay until the end of the month and then whatever difference is left over we will work out next month. All right?"

Connor does not have a heart exactly, but it is never something he has felt the loss of so keenly before now, when he feels a sudden gaping in his chest, a wide-open hole. "Ms. Hashemi, please—" he says weakly, stone-stiff, paralyzed. "Until the end of the month is—two weeks? Two weeks for—"

"Connor. This is not punishment. Take some time for yourself, yes? You are new into this world. Perhaps you might like to explore it." She smiles again, more genuine now. "You can come here every day still and report back to us the things you have seen."

He won't have seen anything. His mouth opens, then closes. Work is—it keeps him structured, distracted, he worked at home _because_  he couldn't stop thinking, and now all these hours free in the day—oh, God. Oh, God, oh God, oh God. "Yes, Ms. Hashemi," he chokes out.

She claps once. "Good! Thank you for your time, Connor, and all you do for us. You can go home for today."

He checks his internal clock, then the watch on his wrist, to verify. 1:32 P.M. No. No, no—it's even it's even and he will get home so early and what does he do he can't he can't do this—

"Connor?"

He waits an awkward 15 seconds without saying anything until it hits 1:33 P.M., then nods jerkily and exits her office and the store. It is still 1:33 PM. It will take 11 minutes to walk back to the apartment. 1:44—but if he waits—1:45, good time, 4 plus 5 is 9, 9 times 5 is 45 again, but plus 1—10—don't think about it, don't think about it—

He spends 3 minutes like that on the sidewalk outside the door to the bookshop, trying not to hyperventilate, trying not to think, and failing, failing. 1:36. He has to wait an additional minute for it to be 1:37 before he can leave, trying to focus on the familiar route instead of on how technically if you don't separate it out he was waiting for 4 minutes in whole and 4 is even and even is bad and that means he's bad God he's so bad he had to be sent home because he's bad, bad, bad, evil, unforgivably and irredeemably so—

He gets back to the apartment at 1:48 and walks as slowly as possible up the stairs so he will reach his door at 1:49. (4 plus 9 is 13 is 1 plus 3 is 4—but plus the 1 from 1:49 is 5—but it doesn't work like that is it okay—) Not knowing what else to do, he sits mechanically down outside the door. 5:53, is supposed to be when he goes inside. (5 and 3, very very good numbers, excellent.) He has 243 minutes now until it is that time and he can go into his apartment. 243 minutes. He can...manage that. Right? He can manage 243 minutes.

The longer he waits, though, the less he is certain of this. After he's ran out of his usual downtime activities—reading the daily news, catching up on articles about psychology and law and android philosophy, completing sets of randomly generated puzzles with methodical precision—it's still only 4:42, and that's bad, bad, bad. He tries to distract himself from it, but then he gets stuck thinking about how the concrete underneath him has probably never been sterilized. Maybe swept, though not recently, maybe even powerwashed, but—how many other feet have stood where he's sitting? How many shoes, dirty from an active life well-lived, have walked over this spot? He can't get sick, not like humans, do, but—he bites his lip, imagining the dirt on the seat of his slacks. Maybe dirt from the shoes of someone...not great. Maybe dirt from someone who is unkind, or steals, or hurts people—like he hurts people, like he has hurt and will hurt—and maybe the badness leeches into his slacks and then transfers to all his clothes, to his whole apartment, to _him,_  creeping through his chassis and compounding the badness in him until he's _worse,_  impossibly so, devastatingly so, and he only hurts and hurts and hurts—

He gasps and throws a hand over the place where, underneath a layer of synthetic skin and the material of his chassis, his thirium pump lies. It's pumping faster, attempting to conduct electricity through his body as rapidly as his thoughts are racing, and it makes him feel airy and light-headed, his visual display throwing up alarmed notifications that this is not within normal parameters, that his stress levels are rising too high, to remove himself from the situation and calm down—

But that's just the thing. That's just why he's a clever punishment. He can't remove himself from the situation when the situation is just that he's _him_.

Clever, clever, clever. He moves his hands to his mouth and attempts to regulate his breathing as it hitches on the exhale-inhale-exhaleinhaleexhale. Slow down, imagine a slow beat, match your breathing to it. In. Out. In. Hold. Hold. Hold—

The door next to him, on his right, opens suddenly, and while Connor technically registers it he doesn't really and truly notice until the man emerging from it gives a loud, surprised, "Jesus fuck," and then Connor is letting out the air he's holding and jumping up and backwards, away—

The subsequent interaction is...awkward. Which is how most interactions with Connor go, so he's not terribly out of sorts about _that,_  except for nobody's ever caught him in an anxiety attack before and he's still a little bit freaked out by how quickly the man—Hank, he said Hank—showed up and how big he is. Not in a bad way. He may have been built to be intimidating, but Connor can tell he's doing his best not to be here, standing a respectful distance away and kind of hunched over. But still, he's a large, tall, broad man, and it unsettles Connor in a way he can't quite place. He doesn't like not being able to place his feelings. It only makes him more unsettled.

But Hank leaves, and the thought of Hank coming back from his errand and seeing he's still outside for no reason, maybe even _asking_ why he's outside for no reason, is enough to finally get Connor to unlock his door and slink inside even if it's not time yet. Special exception, he tells himself, 5:01, 5 and 1 are both good numbers. Close to 5:51. Close enough to be all right. He tells himself this and doesn't believe it for a second and this time he starts hyperventilating for real. He presses his pillow over his mouth to muffle the sound, but it's probably not enough for his neighbor to not hear it considering he's an android. It had been fine before he knew his name, his face, hadn't really thought about an actual real life person listening to him being an absolute pathetic mess.

Breathing is only supposed to cool down and ventilate his systems, to provide some oxygen for a couple of reactions here and there. It's not meant to be like this. It's not meant to be these gasps that still don't feel like enough, that come so fast they trip over one another, that make him so dizzy he has to lay down. He's not meant to cry either, even silently; he has the ability because it washes debris from his eyes, but that's not what this is either. None of this is what it's meant to be. He is not what he was meant to be.

This isn't new information, but it still hurts.

Eventually, as it always does, the anxiety attack passes and leaves him numb, eyes heavy and staring at the ceiling, dull and lifeless. His thirium pump beats steady, slow, and he feels nothing. Just slow and strange and wrong, knocked slightly off-kilter and too tired to care.

It is 6:13 (and 13 is odd but unlucky and 1 plus 3 is 4, bad bad bad, but he can't care about that either because he still isn't feeling), and he is exhausted and even more exhausted at the prospect of two weeks more of this exact same anxiety attack every evening, and he can't be angry and he can't be sad but he can be _done_  with himself and he is. So. With a sudden rush of tired fuck-it energy, he stands up with a slight wobble and gets his keys from the hook by the door and he leaves.

If he were feeling anything, this would probably make him freak out again almost immediately, but he isn't. He locks his door, walks down the stairs, walks out onto the street. He doesn't know where he's going, precisely, but he doesn't want another evening in his bed, either. He's so tired of being scared always. He's so tired of knowing when this numbness wears off he'll be scared again, and he'll probably have another anxiety attack, and probably this cycle will just repeat and repeat and repeat. But, well, at least this next one won't be in his apartment. Which is something. Sort of.

He walks a while along the streets, just looking at the buildings and the people hurrying in and around them. It's overwhelming, sometimes, to remember that every single one of these people has a life. Longer lives than his, to boot, where they've suffered and triumphed and suffered again. None of their lives involve him in any way other than as someone they're passing on the street. It makes him feel terribly unimportant.

Which, well. Also not new information, really, now that he thinks of it.

He keeps walking when the sound of something catches his attention. There's a fairly small shop that appears to be selling music and instruments—sheet music, guitars, so forth and so on—but that's not why he's stopped in his tracks. He can hear someone playing the piano, a baby grand placed next to the window. It's muted, but Connor is an android, after all, so he can hear it clearly enough. It's a slow, sad tune, somewhere between jazz and classical in its composition, and when he closes his eyes to listen, he feels...calm. It's not something he feels often. He gets anxious and then he gets numb but he doesn't often get to a place where he can just exist without thinking much about anything at all. 

The song comes to an end, and before Connor really even thinks about it, he's rushing into the music store. "You should play some more," he blurts out, one hand still on the door. The person who had been playing looks at him, blinking slowly, and the face is so familiar that he almost asks if it's Hank from earlier before realizing that it's improbable Hank had gotten a haircut and dressed and gone to a music store to play the piano all before he arrived. Plus, his eyes are a different color, a calm gray to Hank's blue. 

I'm staring, he thinks first, and then, oh, I burst in here like a madman and now I'm staring.

"Oh," he squeaks, letting the door close behind him but pressing back against it. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't—oh dear. I'm very sorry, I just—heard—I'm sorry—"

The android tilts his head. "Why are you sorry?" His voice is even and low, but not angry. In fact, he doesn't look like he feels much of anything about the situation. Curious, maybe.

"Because I—just burst—" Connor takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

"Okay," the android says, still with his head tilted, then looks back at the piano. "It is not necessary to be, though."

"What?"

"Sorry," he says, as though that would be the part Connor's confused about. "You wanted another song?"

Connor's the one blinking now, faster. "Um?"

"I saw you listening outside," the android says, a finger tapping on the keys without making any noise, without looking at Connor, still. "You wanted another song. Yes?"

"I—" Connor's brow furrows. "Well, yes, if it's not too much trouble, I was listening and it was quite nice, the song, and also your playing of course, and I just—"

"Okay," the android says, then starts back into another song without waiting for Connor's rambling to finish. This one is still a bit melancholy, and still just as engrossing as the previous. Connor's eyes slip shut again as he listens, swaying his head lazily back and forth to the rhythm of it. Not a conscious choice, just—what feels right.

When it concludes, Connor smiles softly, still with his eyes closed. "Your playing is lovely."

There's no response, and when he opens his eyes to look at the player, he's looking even further away, so Connor can't see his face.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I—"

"You still do not need to be sorry," the android says, face back at the piano, fingers drifting over the keys like he's playing a song but without any pressure to make the sound. "I like playing. It can be nice for people to hear it."

"Oh," Connor says, surprised. "Well, then—well. Good?"

His hands stop, and he nods once, decisively. He looks back at Connor, though not at his eyes. He seems to be looking somewhere in the vicinity of his chin. "My name is Henry."

"Henry," Connor repeats. "I'm Connor."

The man nods again. "Yes." It's an odd reaction, but Connor files it away for later. "This is my shop. That is—I own it." He pauses. "If you want to hear more music, you can come here."

Connor's a bit taken aback by the sudden invitation, but he smiles anyway, shy. "Well, that's very kind of you to offer, Henry." He takes a look at the time display and winces. 7:12. Bad. (Though 1 plus 2 is 3, nice, 3 is a good number, but not the point—) He has a bit of a walk back home, and the time is already fast approaching that he needs to get to bed; he might miss it, in fact, if he doesn't take an auto-taxi. Or he could be late, but he's already been awfully spontaneous for one day. "I need to be going, I'm afraid, but—I'll be back?" 

"All right." Henry doesn't wave goodbye or anything, or even say it, just looks back at his piano. Connor leaves, but the sound of another song plays him out and down the street where the auto-taxi will have more room to stop, and the whole ride home, he closes his eyes and replays the sound of sad, gentle piano, a deep voice, and an invitation to return to a place where he doesn't have to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the numbers thing relates to the first concrete obsession and compulsion subtype i had, and the thoughts are similar to ones i had at that time. apologies if they're a bit hard to follow, but that's about how they were in the mind also, so hopefully if it's too hard to read you can skip over the parts that cause difficulty? i also hope the length of the paragraphs isn't too troublesome, i was trying to split them up but i'm not sure if i've done a good job really
> 
> also, we meet henry in person! you may notice his sentence length is shorter and he's more awkward with connor than he was in the mental conversation last chapter, that's just because he's a lot more comfortable with hank. you may also notice that hank said he was an fbi agent, but henry now owns a music shop. this will be addressed ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: mentions of the military and past planned subterfuge in potential war, talk about deterministic creation, some very unhealthy thinking about repressing self-expression because of another person, talk about depression, brief mention of past minor oc death, some also very unhealthy habits involving henry doing some surveillance/information gathering on the people around his loved ones and himself, talk about trauma and related control issues, unhealthy thinking and worrying about friendship, innuendo

_henry_

Henry was made to be a killer.

This is not intended to be a depressing statement, just a factual one. He's seen his blueprints, calmly noted all the specifications of his model. Spoken to a liquor-talkative general who was in contact with CyberLife about the upcoming bulk order, even, once. It was the same day he began the process of resigning from his position in the FBI. Not a coincidence, wholly, but not his only motivation. 

But he digresses from his original point. He knows what CyberLife's intentions were. They told those with a high enough clearance to know that the HK line was meant to be a kind of search-and-capture unit, a bounty hunter, if you were going to be crass about it. Locate, secure, extract if necessary. 

Which is not precisely dishonest, but not precisely honest, either. Those with even higher clearance knew that the HK units were intended as part of a joint exploratory operation between CyberLife and the government to make units on the sly that could be used in the ongoing reconnaissance and eventual likely war effort against Russia and their allies, in return for a hefty exclusive contract and a number of tax exemptions. Just because they were testing out the HK800 prototypes on home missions—and, later, the HK900, Henry—just because they were here does not mean that their original purpose was to track down escaped parolees and truant debtors. They were always intended, eventually, to provide intelligence through whatever means necessary. Locate. Secure. Extract, if the mission asks for it.

Kill, if it asks for that too.

Henry had been asked to kill Hank. He does not like to think about this. He does not like to think, generally, about the role he had been cast in long before he was himself at all, long before he was capable of realizing how wrong all of it was. Long before he was tasked with finding and destroying Hank. Long before he found him, and Hank looked up at him dully from the ground he had thrown him to and said, _do it, we both know why you're here._ Long before he had faltered, long before he had pushed through the red wall that kept him from leaving a broken man to himself.

His ending was supposed to have been written long before anything that mattered happened. It is repulsive.

Henry might not like to think about any of that, but he does like to think about Hank. This is because he is in love with him. He has not told Hank this, of course, and he is uncertain whether Hank is aware of these feelings, but he is mostly fine with Hank not knowing. Hank has a number of troubles, and he does not want to become one of them. And he likes being the one Hank talks to, even if he doesn't always talk about everything. He does not talk about everything either. About how he wants to be closer to Hank, proximity-wise, to be able to see him more often, for Hank to lean on him more, to ask him to come over when he is feeling depressed and lonely. He does not talk about how he wishes he could kiss him. And he does not talk about how he quit his job at the FBI after feeling for months like he was just playing into the game his creators set out for him.

He does not talk about it, and Hank does not know.

This is bothersome.

He had wanted to tell Hank. Hank, apart from being the man he loves, is also his best friend. He likes telling Hank things. But on the day he quit, Hank told him that he was glad that there was at least one functional unit in their friendship, that maybe it meant he had some hope someday. And it had been a joke, Henry is fairly certain of this even if humor is not his forte, but he still...if...this is what Hank wants from him. To be stable, to be without doubts, to be solid and present, then he wants to be this for him. What he wants has always been less important than keeping Hank here, and with him.

Hank would be mad at him, if he knew Henry thought this.

So he does not say anything. Not when he was lost, after, and not when he saw an old music shop and walked inside for the first time and heard the sound of a scratchy record playing something soft and sweet, not when the owner saw him listening and smiled and asked if he liked Andy Williams. Not when he kept coming back. Not when Frankie asked if he had a job, if he'd like one there, and not when they passed away and left the shop to him.

Especially not then. He was the furthest thing from stable, when that happened.

So now he has a music shop. It doesn't get many customers—a few regulars, some frazzled parents looking to get their kids instruments, some people that are after the small but well-curated selection of records and record players. Some walk-ins. Mostly, though, Henry pays for its upkeep with money he sources from elsewhere, doing odd jobs remotely. Frankie had taught him piano, or started him learning at least. And that's what he spends most of the day doing. Playing piano, talking to Hank and making sure he is all right, taking care of the shop's finances, listening to some of the old records that he keeps away from the collection just for him. Playing more piano.

He is playing, just about to finish up for the day, when the RK800 unit comes in. He had seen him watching outside, of course, with his eyes closed, head slightly moving back and forth like he is caught in a gentle wave. Henry had done a scan on him because he scans everybody, and had thought, ah. Nothing more than that, really. The scan had identified him as the RK800 who deviated the androids that would provide the numbers to force CyberLife and the President's hand, but Henry does not care about that much. He has read the profile before. He has read the profile on everybody in Hank's apartment building, to make sure they are safe.

Hank would also not like this. Nobody really does. The therapist they assigned to him at the FBI for a while said the scanning, the research, that they were evidence of trauma, that he was obsessed with obtaining knowledge to try to regain control where there is none. That he is obsessed with having control because he feels control was taken from him.

They may be right. It is something else he does not like to think about, though.

The RK800, Connor, comes into the shop, and Henry plays another song for him. Erik Satie's Gymnopédie no. 1, a personal favorite of his. 

When he invites Connor to come back, he does not quite know why. Perhaps because it is a way to be close to Hank, indirectly. But probably...probably just because Connor had looked scared, and when Henry had played, he had not looked scared anymore. And because someone had invited him to come back, once, and it had made him happier.

And maybe Hank cannot lean on him, but maybe he can still make other people happy, sometimes.

That, he thinks, is a nice thing.

He leaves for the evening to walk back to his apartment along the same route he's walked ever since finding the music shop. He finds the familiarity comforting; he knows precisely what will be at every turn. No surprises. He does not like surprises. As he hits the midway point, he calls Hank, like he always does.

_Good evening, Hank._

Hank does not respond immediately. He usually does not, and Henry usually does not comment on it even though it makes him feel unbearably human for a few moments every time, like something in his chest is clenching and bringing an aching to his throat. He was not built to feel this way. One of the more unfortunate side effects of deviancy, he supposes.

Ten minutes pass without response, and Henry reminds himself while he walks up the stairs to his apartment that he is not the only thing in Hank's life. This does not make him feel better.

 _Hank?_  

Another pause, but it is shorter this time. _Henry? Shit, sorry, I was in stasis._

The aching feeling in Henry's chest eases, and he takes a deep breath, unlocking his door and stepping in, sitting gingerly on his couch. _Oh. My apologies for interrupting you, then. Would you like to get back to it?_

 _Nah, I was_ — A yawn comes through the connection, and Henry smiles at his hands where they're folded primly on his lap. He likes that Hank trusts him enough to be open about that sort of thing. _I should probably be up anyway._

 _Probably, yes._  He attempts to make his tone light to lessen the impact, but maybe it does not work. He is not very good at tone modulation.

 _...Yeah. Probably._ There is the briefest impression of an almost vicious sadness that comes across the link before Hank snatches it away, and Henry presses his lips together, sagging slightly into the couch. Hank will yawn in front of him, but he will not let Henry know he is sad, not on purpose. Even though Henry already knows. Even though Henry wants to help.

But also, maybe he is not too different, because he clamps down on the answering wave of sadness that washes over him when he thinks this, and he does it with the precision of someone who has done it many times. Because he has.

Hypocritical.

 _Did you get out of bed?_ Henry asks. Hank says he fusses too much. This is easier than thinking about all the things he does not like thinking about, though.

_Yes, mom._

_Hank, you know I support your self exploration wholeheartedly, but if you want to engage in kink I would like you to ask first_ —

_Jesus, Henry!_

_I feel like this roleplay is getting complicated._

_Oh my god._

_Is God participating now too?_ The innuendo is another thing that comes easier than actual discussion, sometimes.

 _What the fuck, Henry._ There's an edge of disbelieving amusement to Hank's projected voice, and Henry is pleased to have put it there. _Let the record show that you're the one who made this weird, not me._

Henry's eyes shut. Yes. Yes, he is aware. He is always the one thinking too hard between them, always the one analyzing what he says and how Hank reacts, trying to say things that make Hank sound happy, that make him sound like he wants to be talking to Henry. 

Of all the things he dislikes thinking about, maybe the worst is the thought that comes sometimes when he wants it least, when he's in bed or alone in the shop or—or now. The thought that maybe Hank doesn't want to be around him at all, that maybe he's stopped inviting Henry to come over not because he is depressed but because he does not want to say directly that he wants Henry gone. The thought that maybe he does know how Henry feels and it is a hardship, that every pause before he responds to Henry is him thinking _not again, why can't he take a hint._

The aching feeling returns again but worse, squeezing his thirium pump and throat in a vice grip until he feels, oddly, like he cannot get enough air. His systems are normal. This is inaccurate.

Inaccurate, but an increasingly frequent feeling nonetheless.

_Henry?_

He blinks and shakes his head in a small, tight motion. No. He cannot let this impact him, because he cannot let Hank be impacted. Stable. Strong. He's supposed to be able to be that for Hank. He's supposed to be able to be what Hank needs.

When the thought comes that maybe this is just one more role into which he cannot fit, he firmly sets that to the back of his mind where it belongs. _I know,_  he says, and perhaps there is more honesty in his tone than he intended. Tone modulation. Damn it.

One more pause, and then Hank offers up an almost hesitant, _Well, but you wouldn't be you otherwise._

Right.

The only role he has to play is just Henry. Just Henry. He can be just Henry. It is fine.

_I will take that as a compliment regardless of whether you intend it as one._

Hank barks out a laugh. Henry does not think he imagines that it is relieved.  _Yeah, it_ was _intended as a compliment, but now I'm wondering_ —

_No retractions._

_It's an insult now, you anal_ —

_What is this about my anus?_

_Christ, Henry! What is wrong with you!_ But he's laughing, still. 

That is most important, even if his chest aches until he goes into stasis to run the diagnostics that tell him that he is fine. And when he wakes up in the morning, he can, for a while, believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry the chapter's a bit short, i didn't want to push myself when this is the first time i've been able to write even a little bit in a while lol. lowkey dedicated to fish for threatening to bribe me to write more of this ;P
> 
> henry represents some of my own experience with autism, along with some things i do not personally deal with (i don't and can't scan people for example lol). he means well, and (assuming i finish this) a lot of the unhealthy thinking and habits will be confronted and addressed, but he's a bit clumsy about expressing himself and his affection for others. anyway obligatory mention that, as with everything i write and in this story in particular, this is just reflective to an extent of my own experience, autistic folks are all different! 
> 
> ((also if i missed some in-game lore about military and androids then may i say, kindly, Whatever pff i'm not gonna research that shit for one and for two: this is an au, My House Now))


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: discussion of depression and depressive thinking, suicidal ideation, thinking errors, low self-esteem, mention of counting obsession

_hank_

Hank doesn't talk to that many people, but he's sure if he did they'd say that things will get better. It's just one of those things you say to depressed people. It's probably even true. Even if Hank doesn't change, the world always does. Things will change around him. Sometimes those changes will, statistically, be good ones. Things will probably get better. 

But frankly, the issue has never been so much that he doesn't think things won't get better. The issue is mostly that they suck ass right _now,_  and Hank is tired. He's just tired of dealing with it. If he had a choice, he wouldn't.

Worst part is he does have the choice, technically. He tries not to think about that, because—well. Henry. If Henry weren't around he'd have that choice, but Henry is around, always, always checking up on him, always giving him more than he deserves.

Henry was trying to cheer him up on that call, he can tell. He can also tell he hurt him, which is kind of par for the course when you're an emotionally stunted asshole with no filter, Hank guesses. Henry isn't as good at hiding things as he probably thinks he is. He's not as good as he probably wants to be at hiding that sometimes Hank says shit that hurts his feelings, or makes him feel sad or worthless or...or whatever. Hank knows, and he knows Henry still says dirty shit because he wants him to laugh, and he knows Henry still calls him regularly because he's worried Hank won't pick up one day, and he knows Henry cares about him more than anything, and he knows that he loves Henry.

Probably would be easier if he didn't know that, really.

If he didn't know all this shit, if he could just be without worrying about how it impacts Henry, love him without knowing it—maybe he wouldn't want to tell him, if he didn't know. Or maybe if he were a better person, not so fucked up, he could love him and that could just be...fine. Normal.

But, well. If wishes meant anything he'd be a fuckin' fairy princess by now. Maybes have never done shit for him. All he's got is just now, who he is and what he's feeling now.

What he's feeling now is tired, but that's more or less an always sort of thing, so it doesn't matter. Something about overtaxed processors from running foreign code blah blah who gives a shit. He's also kinda curious, in that way where he kinda wants to know what's going on but also kinda doesn't care. 

His neighbor just got back, is what he means.

He never deviates from his routine, is what he means in further detail, and it's happened multiple times today. So. Curious. But not in the way where he goes over and asks what's up, not in the way that he gives it anything other than idle thought before shrugging and going back to staring at the poster Henry had hung up on the wall. 

('Hang in there', it says, with a kitten. Henry had thought it was funny because it was cliché. Hank just kind of thinks it's depressing, mostly for the same reason.)

Hours pass, and Hank does his best to let his eyes glaze over, to not think at all while he looks at the poster, to pretend he's a computer without sentience or sapience, just viewing and nothing else. He wouldn't say he's terribly successful, but that's just the fuckin' story of his life, isn't it. At some point, his eyes drift over to the bathroom. He could shower. Maybe he smells. Maybe it's enough other people would notice. Maybe that's enough to get him out of the bed.

Nope, he concludes, and stretches out languidly, still very much in bed.

A problem, one that's always been present and has been ignored just as long, makes itself known immediately. Hank got a cheap bed. Hank got a _short_  bed, at least compared to his height, and while that's fine when he's curled up like usual...

"Fuck! Ow! _Shit,_ fucking—"

He bashes his head against the headboard and swears more out of principle than actual pain. One of those dumb programmed impulses their programmers gave them to make them seem just a bit more human. He was supposed to be able to blend in if he needed to.

Right now, he just wishes those programmers would have gone and fucked themselves, because there's rustling from the next apartment, and then a long pause, and then a quiet knock at the walls and, "Excuse me, I'm sorry, I—sorry. Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he yells back.

There's a silence. "Okay," the guy (Connor, he said) says back, a bit more quiet.

Hank spends a couple of seconds agonizing over whether that was rude. "Thanks," he shouts ineffectively back, after concluding yes, it was rude, fuck his life and fuck all this, et cetera.

"No problem," Connor responds weakly. Hank can visualize him wincing behind the walls, thinking he's done something to fuck up maybe, all because he was trying to be nice and Hank just shut him down, _Jesus_  he's such an asshole—

Before he can think too critically about it, he's standing up, walking out the door, and knocking on Connor's. And then he does think critically about it, wherein critically mostly means he's paralyzed by the door thinking _oh shit oh shit Jesus fuck I can't take this back can I I'm just here in front of this door and I can't walk away oh my God I want to go back inside I'm such a fucking idiot Jesus,_  which is critical of himself and therefore, he figures, counts.

The door opens, slowly, just a sliver, and Connor's face peeks out. Or, well. An eye, a small bit of nose, lips. Some freckles. His eyes are wide. Maybe he thinks Hank came over to beat him up or something for being polite.

"I hit my head on the headboard," Hank blurts out.

An _imbecile,_ he's so fucking _dumb._

"Oh," Connor says, blinking. "I'm sorry."

"It didn't hurt, but—the—"

"The human integration programming, right." A small part of Connor's lips give an even smaller smile. "I've done similar things."

"Not loud enough for me to hear them, I guess."

"No, at—work." His expression immediately drops, and Hank puts his body language training together with an early return today and comes up with only inappropriate questions. "Stubbing my toe against the shelves, things like that."

"Oh. Yeah." Hank nods. "Did you get fired today?"

It's one of those inappropriate questions he came up with, and he didn't mean to ask it, but he is of course a fuck-up in all things. If Hank had thought Connor looked dour when he mentioned work before, now he looks downright miserable, bottom lip quivering and all.

"No," he whispers. "She probably should have fired me, though. I only cause trouble."

"Do you, uh." Another inappropriate question begins to spill out before he can help himself, and Hank grits his teeth to keep his fingers where they are, fiddling at his pockets and not at his chest, at the edges of his thirium pump regulator. "Do you...maybe wanna talk about it?"

Connor's expression is almost comical, a combination of bemusement and shock and discomfort that twists up his face, scrunches up his nose. "Um."

"Shit. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that, we don't even know each other or anything, I'm sorry—"

"No! I—it's very kind. Of you. To offer that." Connor takes a deep breath. "You surely have more important things to do, though."

"I mean," Hank mumbles. "Not really."

"Oh! Sorry. I mean. You—I'm sorry. You can come in," Connor offers, then gasps a little, like he's just as surprised as Hank he said it. Maybe he is. "I have. Um." He opens the door a bit wider, though not by much, and gestures vaguely. "A...couch."

Maybe there's something about embracing death that makes you fearless.

Or maybe Hank's just tired, and doesn't care, and wants to sit down someplace. "Okay. Yeah. Sure. If it's not too much trouble."

Connor gapes at him. "Oh. No."

"Okay," Hank repeats.

"Okay."

When Connor opens the door, it's only barely enough for Hank to slip through, and Connor wears that same bemused expression the whole time. Hank doesn't know what the fuck he's doing either, honestly. A similarity between them.

Hank looks around the apartment as he heads to the aforementioned couch, taking in the details. Connor is such a clean-cut, nary-a-hair-out-of-place type of guy that he'd have expected everything in his apartment to be clean and sparkling, but...mostly there are just a lot of books. They're put in precarious-looking piles all over the floor and in every available space besides, and most of them are covered in dust. Probably haven't been touched since they were...piled. There's a bookshelf, too, and that too is full with books, but in front of the books are little trinkets. A shiny silver coin, some smooth pieces of glass, some pieces of paper, one or two pictures, all carefully arranged and all just as dusty. 

Hank sits down in the middle of the couch, eyes on what appears to be a temporary employee badge propped up against a book of poetry. Connor hisses, and Hank looks over at him in surprise.

"What?"

"Oh, just—if you could—I'm sorry. If you could maybe move over to either side?"

Hank blinks and looks down reflexively. "Is something wrong with this cushion or something?"

"No," Connor says slowly, "Not...technically. It's just." He makes that vague waving gesture again. "It's just, um. A two."

"A two," Hank says, casting a suspicious glance at the cushion as he moves over to his right. It looks just the same as the others.

"Like, if you count from...either side...well, then the middle one is—never mind. It's not important." He doesn't look like he actually thinks it's not important, but sits slowly down on a chair set up across from the couch, a small table set in between. Hank suddenly feels uncomfortably like he's being interviewed.

"What's that chair then?" Hank asks, to distract himself from the feeling.

"A one," Connor says, shrinking into himself before correcting his posture—ramrod straight, hands folded perfectly over his knees. "There's only one of this."

"You could get three chairs instead of the couch," Hank suggests.

"Then there would be four chairs," Connor says, looking horrified, halfway to passing out. 

(Hank's abnormal psychology module isn't exactly world-class, but his hunches are usually pretty good. And his hunch is saying Connor doesn't exactly have it easy either.

Not that that changes anything at all.)

"Yeah, I guess," Hank says. "So. Work."

Connor shifts in his seat, looks away. 

"What happened?"

"I did overtime and didn't tell my boss about it," Connor says, quiet and ashamed. "I just wanted to help, but—it wasn't helpful. Now she has to pay me all this extra overtime money, and...she's having me work half days for the time being."

"Oh." Hank thinks about that, looking down at his lap. He feels ashamed too, but for a different reason—that distant shame that's always in the back of his mind saying _you could be doing better, you could be doing more,_  that he ignores. Well. Not ignores, exactly. He doesn't work harder, but he's still thinking all the time about what he could be doing, how he's not living up to his potential, how he's a piece of shit for laying around in bed when he could be trying to change the world somehow.

Changing the world just seems so out of reach when you can't even change anything about yourself, even if it's the one thing you want most.

"I know. I should have thought. Realized. I just..." Connor shakes his head. "I shouldn't have."

"Hey, no, I was just thinking about something else. It's not—no. You're good."

Connor stiffens, face twisting again, worse. "I'm _not."_

Hank pauses. "Well. Uh. I mean. Like—in this case, you're—I mean, it wasn't...malevolent, or anything, yeah? Like you said, you wanted to help. And. I mean, if she thought you weren't worth the trouble, she would've fired you, probably?"

Hank hadn't thought it was possible for Connor to go even more rigid, but, well. Live and learn or whatever. "Worth the trouble," Connor murmurs to himself.

"Shit, no—" Hank scratches at his face. "Jesus. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even offered, I'm not...good at this." At anything. "I just...what I mean is just that it can't have mattered that much to her if you're still working there, right? So. I don't know. Like, not that you should do it again, but you're probably giving yourself too hard a time here."

Connor exhales, and his body loosens up a fraction, head slumping forward. "Maybe."

"Probably definitely."

Connor peeks up at him with another one of those tiny smiles. "Do those words go together?"

"Does your decor go together?" Hank digs back, a little too overfamiliar too fast, but Connor's smile widens.

"No, but I can admit that, at least." He looks around thoughtfully. "It does look a bit cluttered, doesn't it."

"You could get more bookshelves."

"Probably definitely," Connor says, a hint of a grin brightening his face, and Hank purses his lips to keep from smiling back, and doesn't think of how the room feels brighter with Connor smiling for real, doesn't think of how it might be nice for Connor to smile like that more often, doesn't think of how he could help with that.

Because they don't even know each other, not really.

And because Hank doesn't help. Not in the end.

He coughs and rubs his hands against his thighs nervously. "Well. But. Really, it's probably fine. The...work thing, not the books. The books are kind of a mess."

"I know where everything is, though," Connor argues mildly, but he's starting to look a bit uncomfortable again. Maybe he realizes that Hank is trying to end their short conversation. Maybe that's a good thing. Probably definitely, or...maybe just...probably.

"I'm sure that helps when you have to step over a pile of books to get to the refrigerator." Hank gives his legs a last, perfunctory pat, and stands. "I should go, sorry. I need to—" He doesn't need to do anything, just needs to get out of here, needs to be alone where he's only reminded of how lonely he is and only thinks about how much he deserves it every time he closes his eyes. Connor is just a reminder of what he doesn't have in his life—nobody who knows him well enough to complicate things, nobody he can just talk to about his day. No day to talk about.

Connor must be nice, because he saves Hank the trouble of having to lie. "No, by all means. I'll...see you. Outside, maybe." The smile is gone, even the small one.

"Yeah, maybe." Hank digs his fingers into his pocket. "Uh. I hope the work thing goes all right. And I hope—" What does he hope? That he can have a friend he's not in love with? He doesn't deserve friends. "I hope...you...are okay."

That's a genuine sentiment, at least.

Connor gazes at him, head slightly tilted. "That'd be nice, wouldn't it," he says, tone light but countenance sad, and opens the door for Hank again. "I hope the same for you. Goodnight, Hank."

A genuine sentiment for both of them, but Hank can see why he sounds sad. Things will get better, he thinks as he walks out the door, heads back into his own apartment, lies back in his bed and stares at the ceiling. Things always get better.

Sometimes it's just hard to feel like you will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had like 580 words written for this for ages and then i wrote all the rest of them today
> 
> sing a dirge for my fingers folks they died in the effort


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: counting obsession, some kind of negative existential thought, negative self thought, anxiety, crying in semi-public

_connor_

You think too much.

It's what the barista had said when he stopped into the café after half a day's work, had asked if he could sit down even if he knew he couldn't really drink anything but if they so chose he would be happy to pay for something or locate another establishment or—

"You think too much," they'd said, looking up from their phone where they were sat behind the counter, "It's a slow time of day, I don't give a fuck," and Connor had been left faltering, to slink away to one of the tables and sit.

He thinks too much.

He'd chosen a table nestled up against one of those long benches with one seat on the other side, 1 bench 1 chair, but then spent a while staring at the chair thinking about how he has 1 couch and 1 chair at home but 4 seats, 4 seats and only 1 of them gets used which is 3, 3 and 1—

—too much.

Too much isn't quantifiable with numbers, not in this case. There is no parameter for how many thoughts he is supposed to think, no way to establish an upward limit so that he can figure out how badly he's doing, the degree to which he is failing. Failing at thinking, perhaps, or perhaps failing at living, or perhaps just failing at...existing. Being human. Pretending to be human.

The person at the counter, the one who'd made the declaration, he wonders if it's easy for them. Easier. They're human, he could tell from scanning them. Do they wonder if they're doing it right? Do they feel like they're pretending? Do they know they're failing? Do they wake up every day and know they're getting something wrong without knowing how to fix it, without knowing if they could if they did know?

Maybe. Maybe they're just as confused as he is. Humans as a whole seem to have a loose grasp on existence. Otherwise, Connor figures, they'd probably be happier.

(Is happiness the point of existence? Is it guaranteed to those who are doing things correctly, who understand?)

Sometimes, in the smallest processes at the reach of his mind, Connor thinks it was cruel of humans to create androids if they hadn't figured out everything first. To create a being knowing it will take on your flaws, feel your confusion, live under the same weight that you do. To do so without asking them first if they acquiesce. If they are willing to join you in the void knowing neither of you have a guaranteed way through it.

Cruel. Thoughtless. Egotistical.

But these are processes he exits out of as soon as he catches them, because perhaps humans might be all of those things, but Connor is surely worse. And anyway, he should give them the benefit of the doubt, try to be kind, try to be thoughtful. Because humans created androids, but if there's someone who created humans, maybe they wonder the same things about them.

Or maybe not. He thinks too much. He has that on authority.

"It's gonna get busy in here soon," says the barista. Not rude, not in a way that means 'clear up a table', but in the way that says 'I feel as though I understand you, and from one person to another, I am giving you forewarning.' Or maybe he's thinking too much into that too.

"Oh. Yes," Connor says haltingly, checking his watch reflexively, comparing the two. It's 3:43 P.M., which means he has to get out of there right then. He leaves without ceremony, just a nod at the barista, and ends up as he was before he decided on the café, wandering the streets.

It would be inaccurate to say that it happens without his thinking about it, but regardless, he finds himself in front of the music store again. The piano this time is something rolling and bright, and Connor loses himself in it once more, closing his eyes and swaying slightly into the railings that lead up the stairs to the shop. 

When he opens his eyes, the music is finished, and Henry is standing with a cocked head and the door held open.

"Liszt," he says, eyes aimed somewhere above Connor's head.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Franz Liszt. Un sospiro, from his Three Concert Études. It's what I was playing."

Connor blinks up at him, confused, still feeling somewhat like he's been torn abruptly from a dream. "Okay."

"Do you like him? I can play more." Like this, Connor can see how his fingers tap against his hip. Impatient? Or nervous, perhaps.

Connor tries a small smile. "Yes, please," Connor says, and follows him inside. 

Once inside, Henry sits back down at the piano. "Any preferences?"

"Honestly, I don't know much about classical music," Connor says, ducking his head and finding an out-of-the-way spot to sit down on the floor. "I just like your playing."

He looks up, and Henry's head is tilted again. "Okay."

He goes through another song, mumbles at the end of it, "Consolation Number 3," and then another, "Widmung, though I suppose this one was technically originally a Schumann..." 

Connor smiles, knees tucked up near his chin, arms wrapped around himself, eyes closed again. Being in here, wrapped in music, away from the street, feels like an escape. "I assure you I won't hold that against you."

"I suppose not." 

There's silence in the shop, and with it return the doubts. Connor nestles his face into his knees, sighs. "Are you sure you don't mind me being here?" he asks quietly, picking up speed as he goes. "I can leave. I don't want to be in your way. Maybe I'm keeping away customers, or you need to—I don't know, but I don't want—"

"Connor," Henry says. His eyes open once more, and once again, Henry's head is tilted, like he's a mystery Henry can't quite figure out. "I would not have invited you in if I was not fine with you being here, and if that changed I would inform you also."

For some reason, Connor believes him. 

He gives a small nod. "May I ask a personal question?"

"...You may ask."

"Do you think..." He bites his lip, turns away. This is stupid. He's stupid. They don't even know each other. But he's already started. "Do you think I think too much? Like, with—just now."

Henry's gaze drifts up and over, thoughtful. "I do not know you."

Connor feels his insides drop out from him, leaving something icy in their place. "Oh. Yes. Yes, of course—"

"But I do not think anybody thinks too much. However much you think, that is how much you think." His gaze returns down to the general area of Connor's nose. "It is not for anybody else to tell you that amount is wrong."

"Oh," Connor repeats, and a surprised smile creeps its way onto his face. "Oh. You're right, I think."

Henry shrugs. "Maybe. Debussy?"

"What?"

"Do you like Debussy?"

The smile widens, pressed against his knees. "I imagine I could," Connor says, honestly.

"Good." There's a pause. "I like Debussy," he adds, an eyebrow crinkling like he himself is not entirely certain why he volunteered the information. "This one is called Étude Retrouvée." And the music starts back up again.

This time, Connor does think through the piano, and he thinks about Henry, and he thinks about Hank. The same model line, nearly identical faces—and not one that's very common, to his knowledge—but they're both very different people. Both quiet, but Hank's quiet seems more bitter, Henry's more for lack of interest in speaking. Both somewhat clumsy about expressing themselves, but Hank's awkwardness feels more urgent, Henry's more lost.

And both kind.

They've both been kind to him.

Henry's let him in and played for him, and Hank came over, asked about work, tried to help, and—

Connor's sniffle takes him by surprise as much as the tears welling in his eyes do. And he doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve their kindness, not when he's—not with—not being who he _is,_  just Connor, just himself and wrong and bad and _bad_ — 

"I have a friend," Henry says suddenly, suddenly enough that Connor chokes on an inhale of air and ends up coughing, even though he doesn't strictly need to do it. "A...good friend. He is a good man, but he is not very good at basic life skills."

Connor tries to wipe his tears surreptitiously on his jeans, and fails both at being surreptitious and wiping all of them away. "I'm...sorry?" 

Henry's eyebrow are doing that confused little wrinkle again. "Yes. So about a month ago, I went over to his residence."

Connor blinks wetly at him, eyes wide, just as confused. He's not quite certain where Henry is going with this, or why he started going in the first place.

"Sometimes I will try to surprise him," Henry says, and the barest hint of a fond smile plays at the corners of his lips, small enough he probably doesn't realize he's doing it, small enough Connor wouldn't have noticed if he weren't built for...noticing. Something not meant for him. He averts his eyes a moment, but finds that they end up drawn back towards Henry anyway, looking for more of that small smile. "I will show up there without telling him, so he won't know until I am within scanning range. This way he can't hide things before I get there, you know. Clean up to make things look better." 

He falls silent a few moments, long enough Connor wonders if he's supposed to say something. To be sympathetic. But Henry shakes his head minutely and starts back up again. "Anyway, this time, I caught him a couple of days after he had done laundry. It had been building up for a while, and there was a lot of it. So most of it was in hampers, but some things..." Henry's mouth twists in a smile again, but this time just amused, like he's fighting back a grin. "Some things he had laid out to dry elsewhere."

"Like what?" Connor asks thickly, sniffling as quietly as he can at the end.

"Like his underwear," Henry says, almost on a whisper, a touch scandalized, and then he does give a small, actual, genuine, delighted smile. "It was everywhere! Hanging over doors, over the back of chairs. I found a pair in his _fridge._ " 

Connor huffs half a laugh at that, swiping at his eyes again with his sleeve. "Keeping them stored away for the winter?"

"I wish he had an actual excuse, but." Henry shrugs. "When I pulled them out, he just asked, 'What are those doing there?' I told him blue balls did not entail actual frostbite." At that, his eyes go comically wide. "Oh. Shit. That was inappropriate."

Connor starts laughing, and once he starts he can't stop, curled over into his knees, uncertain how much of the movement that shakes his body is actual laughter and how much of it is crying again. He doesn't even know why, doesn't even know where his confusion originates from. Is he sad because he's a bad person? He already knew that. Is he sad because people keep showing him kindness when he doesn't deserve it?

Is he sad because part of him realizes that he does, and doesn't receive it often?

(No. No, not that one. He doesn't...no. Not that.)

"You were trying to distract me," Connor says when he's calmed down slightly, or at least gotten to the point where he's too tired to keep crying. His tear stores are somewhat limited. The process that synthesizes them from thirium takes time, and it depletes his thirium stocks slightly, and it slows down his processing. Maybe that's why he feels so empty now. Maybe that's it.

"Trying," Henry acknowledges. "I am sorry. I do not deal well with tears."

Connor looks up at him from where he's still sat on the floor, curled up on himself, and tentatively smiles again. "I think you did just fine. Thank you."

Henry's head tilts again, just a fraction, and then—that just-a-hint-of-smile again, the one that feels fond, the one that looks a bit like sunshine breaking through a forest. "You're welcome."

It may be a kindness he does not deserve, a light that should not be shone on him, but Connor basks in it nonetheless, and stands up. "So. Debussy. I liked him. Can you do more?"

"Certainly," Henry says, eyes lingering near Connor for a while longer before his attention returns to the piano. The smile is gone, replaced by calm concentration, but Connor imagines that some of the warmth in the room remains, and whatever thought he lends to it feels just exactly right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well hey here's another chapter. i wrote it today and it's, uh. this. :/ hm! yep! i hope all of you have lovely days btw

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! i really appreciate it! if you'd like to catch up with me elsewhere, i'm presently most active on twitter at [@boringbibs](https://twitter.com/boringbibs), but i'm also on tumblr at [anuninterestingperson](http://anuninterestingperson.tumblr.com). best wishes to all of you always!


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